


in the spring we set fire to our homes

by kindclaws



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Universe Alteration, and that's how the delinquents get roped into murdering a giant angry gorilla for peace, despite the snarkiness this is not actually a happy story, grounder!clarke, snippet-style chapters, spoilers for season one and two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:28:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindclaws/pseuds/kindclaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>discontinued because the finale ended up being too close to what I was imagining for the end of this fic and I was like 'fuck this' sorry</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the spring we set fire to our homes

**Author's Note:**

> Work title and chapter titles taken from the lyrics of Your Bones by Of Monsters and Men. Some snippets of dialogue (in later chapters) taken from the show, mostly because Bellamy's inspiring speeches are too good to pass up.  
> Be prepared for canonical levels of violence. More warnings will be added as needed.

 

 

The Ancient Greeks believed that Death and Sleep were twin brothers, Thanatos and Hypnos. Sons of darkness, bringers of epilogues, mirrored escapes from reality. It is only fitting that when Bellamy Blake wakes up under the mountain, he is not sure if he is dead or dreaming.

It's the harsh light that makes him consider the possibility that he hasn't yet reached the underworld. He sits up in the strange bed he finds himself in, reaches automatically over his shoulder - only to find that the familiar weight of the gun he's grown so accustomed to is gone. More troubling than its absence, however, is the tug of wires at his arm when he raises it. He looks down to find a needle buried in the soft underside halfway down his forearm, follows the tubes to the metal stand at his side. He's not afraid of needles - hasn't been since he was introduced to spears, which are a lot like needles but bigger and worse in every aspect - but it's still with a grimace and a disgusted groan that he pulls it out of his skin and flicks it to the side like an unwanted gnat.

The first thing he does is take inventory of his surroundings. There's the bed he awoke in, a door straight ahead with a porthole window, a toilet and a sink to the side, a painting with an obnoxiously ornate frame and a couch beneath it. Nothing particularly useful, everything stark white but the painting in dull shades of brown, depicting melting clocks in what's probably supposed to be some thought-provoking piece.

After the colours of Earth, he can't say he appreciates it.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, feeling cold air hit his bare feet. The tiled floor is cold and clean and smooth, and as he stands on it he can't help but feel like he's back on the Ark. It's not a comparison that brings him any joy, only a tight, anxious feeling in his chest. There is nothing good for him left on the Ark. He wants the grit of packed dirt under his soles, the warm crunch of grass and fallen pine needles to prickle at his heels.

Bellamy feels bare and exposed in a plain white tshirt and soft cotton pants that he can quite confidently say he has never seen before in his life. He skims his fingers over the material, unstained by sweat or blood or grime. These clothes have not been lived in.

He crosses the room in only a few paces, making no noise. He hesitates only briefly before pressing his face into the porthole window, peering at an equally white and sterile hallway. There is another door opposite his, but he can see nothing through its window. His gaze drags instead to the sign on the wall beside it, and his blood runs cold.

_Mount Weather Quarantine Ward._

He backs away immediately. He'd listened to Jaha's recorded announcement as the dropship fell to Earth, though the man's voice had made every hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he knows the Ark meant to send them here for supplies and shelter. And he wants nothing to do with anything - or anyone - the Ark thinks is good.

So there are more survivors of the radiation than just the Grounders. He thinks of the last scream he heard before the red smoke choked him, put him to sleep. The terrified feminine voice he left behind is still ringing in his ears - _Bellamy, the Mountain Men are coming!_  These are no friends of his.

But Bellamy has survived too long to sit in this cell and wait for the Ark to send down more dropships, to come find him here and kill him for his crime. When he dies, it'll be on his own terms, on the ground, and after he's made sure Octavia's lived a long, happy life. He's furious at being trapped in here. After all they did to survive, all they accomplished - he thinks of viscous pink fuel and icy eyes looking impossibly warm as they meet his over a flickering fire and the wall around their dropship standing proudly - and Bellamy Blake of the Sky People is not done living.

So he spins around on his heel, picks up the metal stand that held the bags of fluid that dripped into his arm, and smashes the tiny whirring camera above the door.

It's not as effective as his gun, but it'll do. He positions himself by the door and waits. They're going to need to come see what's wrong sooner or later, and when they do, he thinks with a grim smile, he'll be ready.

What he's not ready for is the sudden hiss of air a moment after he's smashed the camera and the red fog that starts leaking out of the vents. He drops the stand, yanks the covers off the narrow cot he woke up on and stuffs it in the sink, his heart thundering frantically in his chest as he watches the sheets grow darker with moisture. The red smoke swirls around him, too quickly, too thick. He takes the wet sheet, hangs it over the corners of the vent and presses it there, willing it to stop the fog.

It only slows it.

Bellamy fights against unconsciousness as long as he can, but eventually his arms are too heavy and they drop without his consent. The sheet falls to the floor, and so does he. He crawls weakly towards the discarded stand. His fingers brush cold metal, but he no longer has the energy to pull it into his grip. He lays his head on the floor, pressing his cheek against the sleek white tiles, and curses whatever hell he's been brought to. Hypnos' brother was Hades' right hand, after all.

The doors open, and his eyes close.

 

 

 

  
....................................................................................................................................

 

 

 

 

  
Two months earlier, blue-gray eyes watch the sky break into pieces and fall to the ground. A hand on her shoulder, the pressure heavy but gentle, cautioning her to wait.

 _you wanted a second chance_ , she says. _this is it._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Clarke shows up eventually. Excuse my lame attempts at referencing history and mythology. I have more chapters written (longer than this one, too) but I think I'm going to save them until I can wrap my mind around the finale, so I have all of season two to play around with.  
> I initially planned to tell the story in two timelines, one starting at the beginning of season one, one starting at the beginning of season two. I don't know if I'll still do that, will get back to you soon.


End file.
